


Eternities

by luvkurai



Series: University-verse [7]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Is Hannibal a liar or a truther?, M/M, Rimming, Will deserves to be happy, make-up sex, we just don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvkurai/pseuds/luvkurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is smiling slightly, when he says, “I have missed you, these past days.” Will’s throat clenches; the back of his eyes burn. I missed you too, he wants to say.</p><p>The inevitable conversation. </p><p>Sequel to House Music, Nightcap, Home Visit, Accompaniment, Guest Lecturer and Fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternities

**Author's Note:**

> JESUS this took a while for me to finish. I am so sorry. It took quite a bit of prodding to get it up but it's done now! Enjoy~
> 
> (Also, I upped the rating to explicit for no reason oooh shiny)

His hangover rouses him, pulls Will from beneath the waters to break the surface. The throb in his head is persistent and for a long moment he cannot remember where he is. Then he sees the cream painted walls, the mahogany overhand that is just _so_ tasteful. He remembers everything, including a couple interesting bits of Hannibal struggling to get him up the stairs. Grinning, he thanks his half-conscious self for inconveniencing the man at what must have been three in the morning.

Everything aches when he shifts his body, but he was sick enough the previous night to escape the typical rush to the bathroom. He is considering sitting it up, getting dressed and moving in a full-out sprint to the door when the previously unnoticed weight on his chest rises momentarily. The disgusting sense of cliché Will feels when he turns his head and meets Hannibal’s eyes makes his headache increase tenfold.

Hannibal was watching him sleep.

In the absence of the blind, drunken anger he was acting on last night, it strikes him suddenly, all the things about this man that should concern him. He refused to let him leave his home on his own the morning after they met. He controlled the first few days of their relationship with an almost iron-fist, refusing to even give Will the power of his own phone number. Over the past weeks, he continuously manipulated the relationship almost to the point of stalking him—Will found himself plucked off the street for dates more than a few times. He muscled his way into lecturing one of Will’s classes, then lied about it. He agreed to serve as an informal therapist as a favor to Will’s advisor without bothering to ask Will first. And, to top it all off, just the previous night, he essentially took advantage of Will in his drunken state. Will may have been thoroughly into it, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that Hannibal brought him home to fuck rather than depositing him safely in his own bed, as he insinuated to both Will and his friends.

Will throws the arm off him and makes to roll out of bed, only to have Hannibal pull him back. A sound of blatant displeasure escapes the man and, when he speaks, his voice is a familiar purr, raspy from sleep.

“Why do you insist on running out on me?”

“Get off,” is all Will says, as Hannibal is practically pinning him to the bed now, with a broad hand stretching across his chest to his shoulder. Alcohol made him braver, made his mouth laxer. Now he’s sober and is becoming more and more anxious of the situation—Hannibal’s grip is scarily solid. Will forces himself to shoot a glare to illustrate how serious he is.

“If I do, you will leave.”

“Yes. I need to go home. My friends are probably worried because you _kidnapped me.”_

Hannibal hums, lips turning up a bit, _the bastard_. “That phrasing is a bit strong—“

“Not really. You told them you were taking me home and instead you brought me home and fucked me while I was plastered.”

His expression goes stony. “I hope you are not implying that I raped you, William.”

Will just narrows his eyes. He knows it wasn’t rape, he was perfectly keen on having his way with Hannibal, but it still was completely unacceptable.

“We need to discuss this, Will. I fully comprehend that you are upset, but you need to understand why I agreed to Jack Crawford’s entreaty, as I did.”

A sigh births low in Will’s chest. His head still hurts and his body aches in all the places Hannibal gripped and fucked him hours earlier. More than anything, he wants to return home and relish in the dark of his room, but Hannibal owes him an explanation and Will owes Hannibal his ear. He has been unreasonably putting it off for days now, screening calls and ignoring all attempts at contact the man made, but now is as good a time as ever. Besides, it may very well make no difference to Will’s opinion, especially after the lengthy list of faults concocted not minutes prior.

“Fine,” Will says shortly. Giving in feels like a weight of his chest, only to accept a heavier one. “But I don’t want to have the conversation naked in your bed.”

Hannibal nods, accepting his terms easily because, Will knows, he’s getting what he really wants. “Shower, make yourself comfortable. We can talk over breakfast.”

Breakfast makes Will flinch internally—he’s not sure his stomach can take it—but he nods and waits for Hannibal to let him up. A long beat passes without any movement and Will realizes that Hannibal is still staring down at him absently. There is something strangely unguarded there. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second and that _thing_ in the man’s expression shifts, whatever truth, generally hidden, temporarily visible, falling away in a flash. Replaced with a strange look of realization.

“Hannibal, I—“ He begins, unsure what he even plans on saying.

“Apologies, Will,” Hannibal cuts him off, finally letting him up from the bed. Will mildly stretches his limbs as he stands, planning to further loosen his limbs in the shower. Hannibal, meanwhile, makes his way to the doorway, not bothering to remove his night clothes to adopt more formal attire—a rarity in itself.

“Will,” Hannibal says suddenly, derailing his quick journey to the bathroom. Will turns as slightly as possible, very aware of his nakedness in the cool room. Hannibal is smiling slightly, when he says, “I have missed you, these past days.”

Will’s throat clenches; the back of his eyes burn. _I missed you too_ , he wants to say, because he remembers curling up in his bed, fighting off anxiety at the idea of spending another second away from Hannibal. But he _can’t_ because what if whatever Hannibal says doesn’t change anything? What if it makes things worse? It would be a promise he cannot keep and he flat our refuses. So, instead of saying or doing anything to verify his feelings, he rushes into the bathroom and slams the door.

While the water in the shower heats up, Will slowly sips water from the sink, shifting from foot to foot on the cold tiles. The hot water torrents over his back and, for a few minutes, Will can leave his shattering life behind.

 

“Here,” Hannibal says by way of greeting when he enters the kitchen.  Will wears the most casual clothes he could find in Hannibal’s closet—a cotton button down and light wool trousers. If the man cares that he borrowed them without permission, he says nothing. Simply pushes a tall crystal glass across the counter. The liquid inside is yellowish and murky. “For your hangover. I think it best you do not know what is in it.”

How Hannibal knows of Will’s persistent hangover is beyond him, but he wordlessly accepts the drink. Breakfast, it would appear, has also been engineered to serve Will’s state: toasted brioche with light butter and fresh fruit. No meat, no cheese and nothing too heavy. Will takes a too-large sip of the hangover drink (it is disgusting) and takes a bite of toast to chase the flavor before Hannibal deigns to speak.

“Perhaps I should begin with a general apology?” He begins. “Judging by the state you chose to throw yourself into last night, I can only assume I have caused you an amount of unnecessary strife, for which I apologize.”

He pauses, lets Will take a few silent bites of food before continuing, “Jack Crawford asked me to speak with you because he, a bit selfishly, intends for you to continue studying the Ripper regardless of any consequences it may have on your psyche. This was disconcerting I admit, as I worry for you almost constantly. You are prone to mild episodes of night terrors which have been escalating as of late. You need help, Will.”

Hannibal sends Will a level look when he pointedly pushes the disgusting hangover cocktail aside. After pushing it back in front of him, he circles the counter to sit beside him.

“Jack requested I partake in conversations with you for two reasons: first, so I may ascertain the degree to which you are unwell, and second, to provide any aid possible.”

Will opens his mouth to speak, to emphasize that he already knows this and thinks Hannibal should have refused on the spot, but is swiftly cut off.

“I did not decline for a reason. From what you have disclosed to me in the past, you have pushed your way through plenty of doctors, all of which were both unable to help and ultimately causing of greater discomfort. You are not suited to therapy, Will. Not in that sense. Had I refused, Jack simply would have found another willing doctor and the cycle would have restarted.”

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you agreed _just_ because you didn’t want another therapist talking to me?” _Bull shit._ It may seem plausible, but at this point Will knows Hannibal and knows that in itself isn’t enough. The man sighs, acquiescing to Will’s point.

“No. I did hope you would concede to have meetings with me, beyond an illusion for Jack’s, though certainly not for the reasons you accused me of in your email. My theory is that while you may not benefit from talking with a stranger, talking to someone with whom you have already formed a deep connection may have the opposite affect. I promise, I have no intention of studying you for the sake of my own career. I want to help you, Will.”

Will started receiving counseling when he was twelve. His father was short on money, but he still sent Will to a therapist (though even the cheapest one was well outside their tight budget). From then, a constant cycle of going to therapy until the money ran out and it stopped (his father told him he seemed better and didn’t need to go anymore), until something traumatizing happened and it all started up again. Will was in and out of various doctors’ offices until he turned eighteen and put a stop to it by moving out of his father’s home.

The experience of being forced into therapy by a parent is painful for any teen. What made it worse for Will was that he knew he actually needed it. He was sick; he always had been. Little things drove into his skull and help him captive for small eternities and he felt he could barely breathe by the end of them. But none of the people Will went to cared beyond their own clinical interest and an extra penny in their pockets.

It perhaps would have been even worse at this stage, simply due to the degree of which Will’s empathy has developed. Any and all doctors Crawford is in contact with would be the best in their field. Not only would they possess the interest in Will, but they would have both the means and the leverage to write about him. Such would have no doubt occurred with Hannibal, had they not met first.

“I want to help you.” The words are repeated quietly, under Hannibal’s breath. As if to himself rather than to Will. Will opens his mouth without an intention in mind, but Hannibal thankfully drives onwards.

“Before you say anything, I want to make myself _explicitly_ clear: I will do anything and everything to win you back, Will, you just need name your terms. What I said upstairs understates the severity of my despondency in your absence.”

Will had characteristically avoided eye contact for the entirety of the conversation, but now he glances up, stares straight at Hannibal. What had before sounded like a mere explanation for Hannibal’s behavior has shifted to more than even an apology—this felt like Hannibal’s personal brand of begging. It was subtle, barely there, and Will was surprised he could even notice it.

“When I received that email from you last week, when you refused to take my call, I cancelled a prior arrangement to drive to your home. I travelled halfway there before arriving to my senses and providing you with the space you obviously desired. But after the weekend ended and you still refused to take my calls I had to make a decision. I realize that bringing you here while you were not in a state to make wise choices was somewhat Machiavellian, but it seemed to be the only option you left for me.”

He finishes speaking and sits back slightly. It isn’t particularly blatant, but it strikes Will suddenly how on edge Hannibal seems to be. His body language is barely varied, but Will can’t help but notice all the tiny things—the way his posture seems incrementally stiffer than usual, the way his nostrils flare with each and every breath.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and says, “Ok.”

Hannibal’s questioning, impatient, almost exasperated look, makes him elaborate: “Ok, I believe you. I think you’re right, as well. I think it…makes sense. Crawford has been putting a lot of pressure on me lately. Sometimes I—“

He breaks off. To insinuate that Jack wishes for him to help _catch_ the Ripper is a long shot (Will does not have proof, after all) and would unnecessarily worry Hannibal. Instead of elaborating, instead of focusing for too long on the elephant in the room, he jumps ahead: “I’m sorry that I overreact—“

Before Will can finish, Hannibal is kissing him, full on the mouth, coaxing his lips apart to press the tip of his tongue against Will’s. He cups his chin and jaw firmly in his hands.

“Please, do not apologize,” he whispers. “For all you have gone through, your response was reasonable.”

Will sighs into Hannibal’s mouth when he kisses him again. He honestly wants nothing more than to straddle Hannibal’s lap and kiss the man long and hard, but there are still matters to discuss. Or, at least, he thought there were. In the glow of making-up, Will strangely finds half of the listed causes for alarm excruciatingly sexy, as opposed to concerning.

“But you have to stop messing with me,” he manages between kisses. Hannibal gnaws on his lips in response. “It’s not— _ah_ , ok—“

In addition, he earns a chuckle. “You will have to be more specific, I fear.” But he doesn’t give Will the chance. He kisses him so hard that he has to bend backwards on his stool. He supposes there will be time for particulars later, for sitting the man down and pointing out each and every problem component. Perhaps at a time when the man’s lips are not cascading kisses across every inch of flesh he can reach.

Hannibal hums appreciatively against his Adam’s apple. “I want to pleasure you. Would you mind relocating upstairs?”

Will moans. Admits, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I think you did a number on me last night.”

He leaves the fact of his hangover unspoken. It is fading surprisingly fast with the aid of Hannibal’s cocktail and is little more than an ache at the back of his skull.

Without warning, Hannibal presses his hand just below Will’s abdomen, so his fingers graze, just barely, against the base of his cock. “And if I promise to go easy on you?”

Will feels his mouth open involuntarily to form an _O_ shape and suddenly he’s breathless, unable to do anything but give a jerky nod to convey his admittance.

“ _Good_ ,” he purrs, and Will lets himself be led down the hall, up the stairs and onto the bed.

Hannibal works at the buttons of his shirt. “You are a marvel, always, but in my clothes you are…” He trails off for effect. The fabric falls from Will’s shoulders and he maneuvers himself gently to the center of the bed, among pillows and unbearable comfort.

“You beautiful, precious boy,” Hannibal moans against the crook of his neck. “I hardly deserve you.”

Blood rushes to his cheeks; he feels faint, lucky to already be laying down. Hannibal doesn’t deserve _him?_ The notion is so new, it is very nearly terrifying. Part of him screams that it must be empty praise, spoken in reward for Will taking Hannibal back, accepting his excuses, but the man has always used words sparingly. He may exaggerate, withhold, but never lie, insofar as Will is aware.

“I love you.”

The words tumble from Will’s mouth like a force of nature. They come so easily, Will has to wonder how long they’ve been cooped up inside of him. It’s ridiculous, somehow, that he would say such words an hour after refusing to admit that he missed Hannibalduring their short breakup. With Hannibal’s hands and lips trailing lower, pressing at his abdomen without pause, despite the major milestone Will has just chosen to push them over, he has not even the chance to feel anxious about it being out in the open. Blood is rushing down, making his thoughts go woolly, his body arch and quiver all over. His eyes have long fallen shut. It’s a satisfying hum, the pleasure created by Hannibal’s gentle hands. It erases all the former aches entirely.

With a single tug, Hannibal’s trousers (a size too large for Will’s slender hips) fall around his parted knees. His briefs follow suit and Will is soon naked and shivering atop the duvet, pining for the smallest of attentions. The press of warm fingertips against his hole is somewhat grounding due to the chafing on his rim from the nights activities. He restrains the resounding flinch as best he can but Hannibal’s insistent pressure does nothing to ease the burn. The man continues with his tight, harsh circles, inflicted incessantly. Will is on the verge of speaking up when a low scream breaks from his lungs—Hannibal has just run his tongue over Will’s hole.

His eyes fly open so he may stare incredulously at his lover, calmly perched between Will’s legs. Before he has the chance to ask him to stop, Hannibal takes hold of the underside of his thighs. Curves Will’s body upwards to give himself better access and Will would feel startlingly off-balance, with his knees hanging towards either side of his head, if he weren’t drowning in sensation. He cannot remember his own name, let alone that Hannibal is meant to be going _easy_ on him.

This method, as terrifyingly intense as it is, seems to have opened him up remarkably easily, because when Will feels what can only be a finger press deep inside of him, there is no burn. Just pleasure, just the feeling of Hannibal gently circling his digit, tantalizingly near his prostrate, but not quite.

“ _Oh god, Hannibal_ —“ Will says, the sole articulate words among a stream of noises and gasps. He knows _in theory_ , that the sounds echoing out in the room are originating from him, but they sound so distant, so alien, that he can’t help but question it.

As if he were not a mess of himself before, the ultimate touch against the bundle of nerves Hannibal had been skating around for what felt like a lifetime makes him practically whine. Another finger follows and Will is caught between shoving away and spreading his legs wider against Hannibal’s assault on his prostate. With two fingers inside him and his tongue and lips still doing a number on his loosened entrance, his spare hand occupies itself with keeping Will bent upwards. He can feel the thumb gently soothing the inside of his knee, a tiny adulation.

“Do you like that?” Hannibal whispers when he stops to catch his breath. He is unsure what _that_ refers to, if it is meant towards anything in particular. “Will.”

His name comes on as a rush of air across his gaping hole and it makes him clench up. Hannibal laughs, no doubt at the sight—Will, opened up and stretched out before him, a mess of pleasure, precum leaking from his twitching cock, must be one of the more erogenous things Hannibal has laid eyes on.

Hannibal leans back slightly; his tongues ceases lewdly eating Will out entirely. Will feels the some of the man’s weight leave his legs, feels the cool air of the room rush over his wet hole.

With the absence of his mouth, Will comes back to himself, albeit only slightly. A small amount of his peripheral vision returns and he can see Hannibal narrowly through lidded eyes—gazing up at him.

“I love you too, Will,” he says, and it sounds so _real,_ so _true_ , Will cannot help but wonder if every other thing the man has said was a lie, simply in comparison. When Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes, it feels as if a curtain has fallen, with an audible, thump, to the floor between them. No performances, no illusions, just the two of them in the raw.

Orgasm takes him so instantly, so fully, he can’t help but wonder if Hannibal’s timing was on purpose. The hot, blinding pleasure is all-powerful—simultaneously erasing and recreating and accentuating the words until it feels like that alone is the cause for this pleasure. Hannibal continues to finger-fuck him into oblivion throughout. When it’s over, Will with his own mess splattered across his chest, he feels the hand slide from his hole. Somewhere distantly, there is water running, for a time, and then Hannibal is back, washing his chest, kissing him, sloppy and open-mouthed, sucking on his tongue. Will just bathes in it, lets himself soak up all of it because he wants nothing more than to be with this man.

Will doesn’t offer to get Hannibal off—he knows, somehow, that the request would be refused. Instead, he curls deeper into Hannibal’s side and squirms until he manages to tuck his hands under the fabric of the man’s shirt. The familiar feel of chest hair and taught skin makes him grin.

He wants to remember this, memorize the moment so it is forever at the forefront of his mind. It’s too precious to forget in its entirety, he knows, but he fears for the details, for how Hannibal’s face twitches when Will’s fingers accidently skim over a nipple, for how the arm keeping him close tenses and un-tenses each time Will moves. As if the man is worried Will could stand and run at any moment. There’s so many details, so many instances, like the seconds are spreading out to contain minutes and hours of memories, each as important as the last. A million, tiny perpetuities that go as quick as they come.

 

“Have you decided whether or not you will move in with me, come the end of your lease?” Hannibal asks later.

“You did say I could take as long as I needed to think it over,” Will reminds him. He doesn’t voice the fact that it has only been two days since the offer was presented to him.

“Yes,” he allows. Then admits, “As it turns out I am less than patient when you are involved.”

Will grins. He knows what his answers is—knew from the moment he was asked, though he changed his mind quite a few times in between. But Hannibal deserves to suffer for a bit longer. He may have sufficiently apologized for his trespasses, in the most spectacular of fashions, but Will needs to take his shots where he can get them. It may be immature, but, dozing in Hannibal’s bed in the midafternoon, he can’t bring himself to care.

“Can I let you know tomorrow?” Will asks. His sheepish expression reflects exactly how he feels, but it does suit his purpose. While Will’s lips are still parted from the last syllable of the sentence, Hannibal catches his bottom lip between his teeth. The sore ache reminds Will again of how they were abused the previous night.

The kiss is short-lived, but addictively passionate. Will must physically restrain himself from attempting to wind his fingers into Hannibal’s hair and pull him close once more.

“I suppose that is acceptable,” Hannibal replies, his voice a gentle murmur against Will’s lips.  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how many more parts there will be (I do like writing such fluff), but I do have the end in sight. 
> 
> luvkurai.tumblr.com


End file.
